Last night, after conversing with the ceiling fan, I wrote ten words on my wall. They are just ten words, but they are ugly. All capitals, they scream out ugly things in room that previously whispered of societally correct things, such as Africa, and Degas, and pine-smelling walls.
But these words are beautiful. Because they scream of hope, and change, and independence. Because they are ugly, and they are how I feel. And they are good.